


étude, yet of nothing

by KicktheMatt



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Insecurity, lowkey suicidal ideation, vix baby i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KicktheMatt/pseuds/KicktheMatt
Summary: How lonely it must be, to be adored for nothing other than your talents.a character study of a certain maestro, based upon the song "knots" by watsky.warning: sad, implications of suicidal ideation.





	étude, yet of nothing

The soft, airy tones of the woodwinds mixed endearingly with the warm passes of the bow against the strings, bringing together a hearty sonata that filled the room with a shimmery sound. The conductor’s hand rose, signaling the fortissimo for the closing bars, before the end came and his arm came crashing down, a lengthy exhale following.

The applause behind Vixel was loud, deafening. Yet he could not hear a single thing.

He turned, bowing to the left, to the right, to the center. The applause continued. The applause was still silent.

For what was applause, the conductor thought, with no actual meaning behind it? Applause has no rhyme nor reason should there be no intent. These people, this concert hall cared not for who Vixel is, but rather, what he has done.

And that, _that_ is the loneliest feeling of all.

For the conductor adorned in lights, a sight to be marveled, was possibly the loneliest man on the planet, unbeknownst to everyone yet himself. For what was a conductor, unknown to all except for the talent he had constructed over time?

As he left the concert hall, the grabs and pokes and prods of those who claimed to love him followed him right out the door, long after he had physically left the building.

And the trek back to the place he lived was a blur, as Vixel collapsed into his room, back slowly sliding down the oak door, his gloved hands stressfully pulling through his hair.

A failure, a failure. All he thought was of his failures. Of the persona and image he had sprung out from the mud, the idealistic view of himself that had women throwing themselves at his feet and the wealthiest nobles offering him naught but pocket change for a performance they would soon tire of. He was replaceable. A new, handsomer conductor would arise someday, and all of these people would shift their eyes over and leave Vixel in the dust.

And that, _that_ is the scariest thought of all.

How shallow one must be, the _gall_ it must take to profess undying love and admiration for one who could be tossed away as soon as a newer model arrives. For that was all the conductor thought of himself-- old, used goods, just _waiting_ to be thrown aside. To be torn asunder. To be forgotten, buffed out of history for his perceived insignificance. 

From the door came a pounding knock. It shook Vixel through his very core, every bone in his body shaking with every single hit of a gloved fist against the heavy door.

"Vixel?" A voice, too familiar, too nasally, too annoying. It tore at Vixel's eardrums relentlessly, the cacophonous tone ringing in his ears. "I know you're in there. You need to pay up, you've put this off for weeks."

Landlords. Creditors. He always owed something to someone or another.

He pulled at his hair again, curling in on himself as the man outside the door tapped his foot impatiently.

After a few eternal moments, he sighed. "I'll just come back in the morning. Bastard."

And with a turn of the finely made heel, the creditor vanished down the hall. 

A shaky, hesitant breath escaped Vixel's lips. The candlelight of the dimly-lit room fluctuated and shuddered, casting long, ominous shadows over the walls and floors. The conductor shivered where he sat, his whole body shaking with the tears that coursed down his face in heavy, bogged-down streams.

For the uncertainty in himself, his skill, in _everything_ had finally come together for him, finely wrapped in gorgeous paper he had to rip open, only for the contents to explode all over in a mess bigger than before. 

Who cared? Who bothered? He was forgotten again, night after night after night, when the lights had faded and the crowd dispersed. Who cared for Vixel, conductor extraordinaire, Harmonica Choir dropout, delinquent, rebel, punk?

His eyes followed the creeping shadows of the candlelight, up towards the piano he normally held so dear, which struck a pang of anxious discountenance within himself. The keys had remained untouched for days, a light coating of graying dust beginning to settle upon the ivory white board. 

Oh, how many years spent, _wasted_ upon the piano bench. What a blunder it was, to come back to music.

And yet, despite the crushing imposing aura of his mistakes, Vixel rose to his feet. He felt wobbly, as a fawn taking the first steps of life. He put one foot in front of the other, ripping the velvet gloves he wore off of his hands, pulling out the piano bench, and sitting upon the crushed cushion.

Vixel took a deep, rattling breath, hands laying upon the keys with a hesitancy he knew all too well. He pressed the first key, letting the note sustain, portraying a question into the freezing air. He knew not what to play, but rather, what to say.

And his fingers began to dance along the keys, playing something yet nothing, a nocturne flying from his fingertips as his mind flew elsewhere, idealizing and imagining scenario after scenario of the end.

He would pause, play a phrase again and again, making slight adjustments until it fit with the rest of the piece. Swinging from highs to lows, the staccato flurry of tired hands pressing equally tired keys rung out into the empty room. Empty, besides Vixel himself, and the crushing desire to rid of himself.

His left hand, playing a slow, depressing movement of chords asked to think things through, to consider the strength it would take to push through. His right struck the keys furiously, growing only in volume and speed as his thoughts continued racing, racing, sprinting against each other to find their way to a mental finish line that only grew farther and farther away. The ringing in his ears continued as the piece grew in intensity, deafening to those who may hear it, but the perfect juxtapositional explanation of the things he felt, only described with the cry of the piano.

He would do nothing this night, no; he would merely sit and play until the sun peeked above the horizon, and banging on his door would arise again. 

The next night was a mystery, the night after even more so. But the howling, melancholy song would continue to play for as long as Vixel found the strength to sit at the piano.


End file.
